The Stars and the Cookie Jar

I didn't mean to make stuff for the crock pot for tomorrow. I intended to run the dishwasher, pack the lunches, and get out of the kitchen, in favor of tidying up the bedroom.

Then my mother called, and suddenly I found myself pulling out the cutting board, getting the sheepsfoot out of my knife roll, and searching about for raw vegetables. I made it through all the potatoes we had -- admittedly only three pounds -- and was starting to tourne a bunch of carrots when I realised they came from the bag ready-peeled and baby-cut. Then I smashed up a bunch of garlic, holding the phone with my shoulder. Chop. Chop. Chop. Whunk. Smack. I'm sorry, Mother, were you saying something?

And then she kept talking, so I made a sauce. The tail end of some cider, an apple that was starting to go to the bad -- and you should have seen the matchsticks that apple ended in, I think my mother was asking 'When's Whatsherface's birthday, again?' or maybe it was 'Why would you want to pretend to have a married name?' -- nice even matchsticks, NICE, EVEN, MATCHSTICKS, butter, a little bit of brandy, cracked pepper.

She hung up, and I was looking at a cutting board full of vegetables and a saucier full of stuff.

Uh.

My inspiration in the kitchen, gentle readers. My mother.